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It's 11:52 P.M. I have a paper due in 12 hours yet I'm on here writing down a journal entry. I'm not sure what the point of these posts is going to be, but I have a conscious desire to start documenting my sentiments. This will be a process of externalizing my thoughts into text -- this process might entail a transformation of what I originally intended. A translational process may lead my sentiments to shift. Let these thoughts become fluid.

Maybe I'm romanticizing my thoughts too much. The ego isn't that exciting, I think. An internal machine of desiring-production that only leads to more machines. I can't really truly understand myself as my subjectivity is tethered to the imminent outside. Woe is microfascism.

Anyways, I'm taking Public Policy C103 right now (i.e Wealth and Poverty), and the narrative that the class undertakes to enforce the notions:"class division, an ethics towards balancing wealth inequality, the increasing gap between the 1% and the 99%". It's not quite so interesting and thought provoking because it's technocratically focused on the instrumental value of "politics of rights". It does not question its epistemology, reiterating the perpetual cycle of modernism that permanently fixates itself on the carpentry of politics. But this politics has already failed. The Will to Power necessitates ressentiment; the perfectibility of politics is incoherent yet the pursuit has displaced our ability to come to terms with the inevitability of death.

Diatribes That B.

I sound like a fucking prick.

Caged Bodies

When a caged bird's neck gets twisted,

the whole world looks. 

When a living bird's cage rattled, 

its whole world shook,

but the world world did not look.

Talons clipped, eyes gauged, body crooked,

shaking as if the world lived while he was perishing.

But he was alive, and that was that: 

People speculate the caged bird, with its externally caused pain,

and an image flashed like some film -- 

like a picture morphing, 

like a dead body decaying,

like a slave body burning, 

like a peasant yearning, -- 

watching a genre reiterating. 

Watching the caged bird burn,

people forget it once had feathers,

it once had talons,

it once had eyes, 

and projecting this image of death

as if the bird did not live. 

The same cage rattles,

as the bird suffers like a Phoenix:

it does not forget the pain 

and it does not live a new life.

Same bird, same cage:

it all burns. 

Ascension of Hope

With the exam paper slowly descending,

like Satan escaping the grace of God, 

into my hands, and as time

sharpens with its bludgeon tool, 

the cracks and holes of my mind

are slowly repairing by the hands

of the blacksmith.

The craftsmanship of mentality that he

has inherited me has ascended

any means of judgement,

I am free. 

The binds of marks and absence

of magnitude has relegated

the status of magnificence

to be nothing than a name.

The joy and jubilence

that discovery gives me

is the same that Columbus

endowed on his journey

to the New World.

This novelty

gives me satisfaction not in

the hopes of a five, 

nor the dissatisfaction of 

anything but a five,

but rather in the 

spirit of covenance

that so many have endured.
I'll follow the path most followed,
and the one least followed,
for I am ambivalent,
walking in both,
regardless, I will pace,
back and forth. 

Time's undying parasites

of captivation 

transcend the modes 

of examination,

for I am indulgent in the

avarice of knowledge

and the bounty of wisdom

that it has handed to me.

So, perish, 

soul of expectancy

for the Devil of 

Creativity

resides in me.  

Lines Charted

A peninsula of imaginary proportions,

where the lighthouse keeper

disposes of his predisposed notions.

Open to interpretation, the land is not for her --

That sardonic Being of Truth, 

making mockery of the False Devil. 

Bearing that twin-pang teeth, 

she scoffs at he who revels; 

the joy and bliss of that sanguine adventure,

where no compass and telescope can guide

him through the rumble of the ocean, he is sure -- 

O Truth, you throw rubble to justify

the being of your existence. 

Within the confines of these lines,

you bear no soul in mine, 

Perish, for you do not lie here hence! 

Eyes Wide Shut

Feelings, your chains 

imprison me to feel

the catharsis of humanity.

Whether it be the 

shackles of agony,

or the lynchings of slavery,

or the torture of negligence,

your eyes penetrate through the 

indifference of her difference:

she is no dissident from the

lines of societal arbitration,

nor does she scorch my soul

like the passion of the Third World.

Why do you glimmer in this 

abyssal sky,

waning to the glimpse of my eyes.

Or is your light merely 

a reflection of my hopelessness created

through the falsehood of my lies.

Acknowledgement buried deep inside me,

desiring to flee,

but I remain a fugitive,

scared of my domestic

position.

These feelings locked up,

Eyes Wide Shut. 

Media and we

Spider Web image
Propagating the message:
Superior US

Mouse and Man

Flee, escape, disappear!
The mouse scurries the maze
conditioning its safety from fear.

Nature so controls the Giant of nature puppeteer --
of the Field he masterfully razes.
Flee, escape, disappear!

Natural tendencies, he excites the Will of Fear;
the Voices of Education that was so raised:
conditioning its safety from fear.

Duality raised from forces so near,
hemispheres convergent in own domestic Lair.
Fear, escape, disappear!

The blind and the deaf have nothing to fear
he who questions does not dare:
conditioning its safety from fear.

Stroke some Genius without a tear.
For it has found its sanctuary mare
Flee, escape, disappear!
Conditioning its safety from fear.